Ad Infinitum
by Alisyn Rae
Summary: Are all those who wander now lost? Beginning anew isn't easy when a former life refuses to let go. As Curieyle flees her past, Aragorn shrinks from his future. Betrayal has hobbled them both. Can a fractured man heal a broken child before a second darkness rises to destroy all that is gold? Aragorn, Hermione. Severe AU. Fandom purests, leave.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Severe AU, Legolas and Arwen OOC'ness. Fandom purists, leave.

**A/N:** Constructive criticism is always appreciated. This is my first serious LOTR fic. I am trying to keep it as canon as possible within the realms of a severe AU. Call it an oxymoron if you must, but there you have it.

**Disclaimer: **Lord of the Rings belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien and Newline Cinema. I own nothing. No money is being made from the creation of this work and no copyright infringement is intended.

...

Aragorn stared into the goblet, long fingers wrapped about the delicate stem, the amber liquid within swirling like a miniature vortex. He could see his reflection amidst the ripples, breaking and then reforming only to be swept away by the whirlpool of spirits once more. He searched for his soul among the confines of the glass, silently pleading with the patterns of crystal to show him where by the Valar he had gone wrong. His mind screamed at him, railed against the truth the warm liqueur had not yet been able to erase. Arwen loved another.

The very thought sent a bitter taste roiling into his mouth. He promptly eradicated it with a deep draft from the goblet in his hand. She had abandoned him for his dearest friend. Legolas. He had been betrayed by the two people he had cherished more than his life. They had been secretly betrothed throughout the entire quest of the Ring's destruction. Throughout the whole of the war against Sauron, Legolas had stood steadfastly by his side, had comforted him when his heart was grieved by the losses of kith and kin. He had dared to speak words of love and reassurance while the taste of Aragorn's life still danced upon the fringes of the elf's waking dreams. The hurt that knowledge caused was staggering. It was like a knife twisting in his heart while the fist of a cave troll slammed repeatedly into his gut.

His ada had spoken truth, he realized with bitterness. Arwen would never be content with a mortal, Dúnedain or otherwise. Her heart would forever be drawn to the firstborn.

"Her love for you is a mere infatuation," the peredhel had said, gazing directly into Aragorn's eyes. "She will never be content walking in the grey span of a mortal's years. Release her, Aragorn. She is not meant for you. Save yourself the heartbreak."

At the time, Aragorn had seethed inwardly, certain his foster father was trying once more to tear Aragorn from Arwen's life. It would not have been the first time, and it certainly was not the last. But now he had to admit to himself that the older elf had spoken a truth Aragorn had flatly refused to believe. In all his love struck ignorance, he had been certain he knew all of Arwen's heart. But there had been longings and yearnings she had kept hidden from him, secrets of stolen moments in the dark of forbidden nights.

What a fool they must have thought him, the ignorant human, blissfully unaware of their betrayal. How they must have laughed behind his back. As he fought to save Middle-earth for his friends, as he took up the weight of an unwanted destiny with the knowledge that he would finally be worthy of the fair Evenstar, she and his friend had pledged a binding troth which they knew could never be undone. Did they think he would not find out? Did they think to procure an heir from him so as to keep both the lines of Númenor and Mirkwood alive? He would not put it past them. Not anymore.

He had found out, though. There were some with loyalty still.

Aragorn frowned as he thought of her. Curieyle. The lone survivor of her line, just as he was of his own. Her two brothers had been slain between the battles of Helm's Deep and Mordor. She had been the only one to escape the war unharmed by arrow or blade. He had found her hiding, curled into a darkened corner of an abandoned cottage, weeping for a family that would never return.

Without a word, he had lifted her gently and taken her to the citadel. Arwen had graciously accepted the girl as one of her handmaidens and Curieyle had been loyal to her.

All had been fine for a short while, until the night Curieyle had intercepted him on his way back to his chamber. Without a word, she had taken his hand and led him to the King's private gardens. There, bathed in moonlight, he had found Arwen and Legolas in a sensual embrace. It had been beautiful and shattering all at once.

Arwen and Legolas had been gentle in their explanation, their pain at deceiving him obvious. Aragorn had listened and inclined his head, wishing them both happiness and relieving Arwen of her marriage vows. He took consolation in his grace in the face of their betrayal, but it did little to heal the soul-deep wound left in its wake.

Now that Arwen was gone, Curieyle, who had refused to accompany her mistress to Mirkwood, worked as one of the Citadel's servants. Aragorn knew she felt for him and was comforted by her continued, quiet presence. He wanted to encourage her not to linger for his sake, but found that he hadn't the heart to send her away.

As if his thoughts of her had been a summons, there was a quiet knock upon the chamber door.

"Enter," he called, not taking his eyes from the spirits still swimming about in his glass.

He heard the door open and close, followed by the soft footfalls he knew all too well. Before long, Curieyle was standing before him. Reaching out, she gently took the glass from his hand, leaving him to gaze at the floor.

"My King," she murmured, setting the goblet out of his reach upon a nearby table. "You will not discover the answers you seek at the bottom of a crystal goblet."

"Indeed," Aragorn said bitterly. "The search, however, is entrancing."

"'Tis also dangerous. I would not see one as mighty as you felled by the barrel."

"Mighty." Aragorn laughed, a harsh sound filled with scorn. "A mighty fool, perhaps."

"Be that as it may, twas a fools hope which saved this world from the grip of evil. Do not be so quick to discount a word that has released us all from the threat of a second darkness. Besides, there is no foolishness in love."

"It was a dream, Curieyle. Nothing more."

"It takes great strength to believe in a dream." He heard her shift, then a soft creak.

Feeling the weight of her stare, Aragorn finally looked up. He met Curieyle's brown eyes with an unwavering gaze of his own. She was perched on the edge of a nearby table, her hands folded in her lap. Her mouth was pursed into a line both thoughtful and disapproving, her back ramrod straight. Her skin was still too pale, he thought.

"Is it your intention to silently berate me all day?" he asked in slight exasperation.

"Is it your wish to be silently berated all day?"

"Nay."

"Then I shall not."

Silence stretched between them, tense and filled with unspoken recriminations. Curieyle was the first to break it.

"You should not drink, my lord."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed as he stared at her.

"You should eat more, my lady," he retorted. "You have been through a great shock and you will not regain your strength by neglecting to care for yourself."

He saw her frown. When she spoke, Aragorn could tell she was choosing her words carefully.

"My king, you scold me for not caring for myself. You are right to do so. I, however, have only myself to care for. You have a kingdom that looks to you for guidance. Would you guide them down the neck of a barrel?"

Anger was Aragorn's first reaction. With effort, he bit back any unkind words he might have spoken. Ever since the betrayal, he had been aware of a shift within himself. It was a subtle hardening and distancing that alarmed him. He did not wish to become cynical and cold. He had seen what loss had done to Denathor and had vowed he would not fall so far into despair that he would abandon those who he'd sworn to lead.

Despite his vow, the anguish he felt at the duplicity of the elleth he'd loved and the friend he'd called brother left little room for other emotions. Aragorn had never believed in anger. But now it was a constant companion, easier to feel than the pain. With anger came action. With hurt came helplessness.

"You speak of things you do not understand. You cannot know—"

"I have lost loved ones too," Curieyle interrupted gently. "I have lost them to much more than betrayal. In time, you may learn to forgive them. You may renew your ties with Arwen and Legolas. My family is forever lost to me. What quarrels we had will never be resolved."

"It is not the same."

Aragorn longed to declare that he would never forgive their betrayal. But he was not so naive as to claim such a thing. He would not willingly forgive them now, but he could not see into the years that still lay before him.

"My lord, I beg only that you realize there are still those who need you."

Aragorn allowed his eyes to close. He could feel a dull throb starting in his temples.

"I am not in a position to see the truth in that right now," he admitted. "But I will not dishonor my kin."

He opened his eyes and stared at Curieyle.

"I have allowed myself the privilege of weakness for too long. Thank you for reminding me of the duty I have toward my kingdom."

The king heard the formality in his own voice but could not bring himself to fill it with warmth. Not when his heart felt so cold. He saw Curieyle frown but could not offer her more than the words he had just spoken.

Curieyle sighed and pushed herself from her perch. She stepped closer, making to lay a hand upon his shoulder. Aragorn stiffened, shooting the young woman before him a warning glare.

Curieyle froze. Their eyes locked. Aragorn knew his were hard and unyielding. As her hand fell to her side, Curieyle inclined her chin and turned toward the door.

Aragorn knew he should call after her. He knew he should not let her go with such tension between them. But all he did was watch as she collected the goblet and decanter of wine before departing.

The king stared after her, a potent mixture of anger and shame replacing his newfound disdain for physical contact. Such connections felt like a lie to him now. Arwen and Legolas had used it often. He could no longer bear the comforting deception of touch.

Rising from the chair upon which he'd been seated, Aragorn called for a servant. He would bathe. He would eat. Then he would take the advice of a mere child and return to the throne of Gondor.

...

After depositing the King's goblet and decanter in the kitchens, Curieyle slipped from the Citadel and retired to her own chamber, closing the door softly behind her. Crossing to the large four-poster in the center of the room, she crawled beneath the blankets, curled onto her side and drew a pillow to her chest.

Tears flooded her eyes and ran slowly down her cheeks. Aragorn's withdrawal hurt more than she believed it should. It made her think of a time and life she had willingly forgotten. It made her think of mischievous green eyes, irresistible red hair and laughing friends who were lost to her forever.

She clutched her pillow, her chest tight as the memories threatened to overwhelm her carefully erected defenses. Closing her eyes, Curieyle frantically reinforced the mental wall the Valar had built between her old life and her new one. She refused to acknowledge the warning they had given her before she had been sent tumbling into a new world.

"The wall is temporary, little one. One day, you must face and overcome your demons."

She would not. She could not. She had approached it of her own free will only once. The darkness and despair emanating from the stone had sent her into a full-blown panic. She had retreated in tears, trembling with not-quite-remembered terror. She only reached toward it now when she sought to seal the cracks that were appearing with all-too-frightening frequency.

Her temples throbbed with the effort of holding her memories at bay. She had a horrifying suspicion that the wall was thinning, weakening beneath the onslaught from the other side. She would need to approach it again soon in order to build another layer of stone around the one that was failing her.

Her fingers cramped as she gripped the pillow, her jaw aching as she clenched it with the effort of the mental struggle. Red spots appeared on the backs of her eyelids and a high-pitched whine filled her ears.

Not now not now not now not now not now not now not now!

The silent mantra helped her focus, gave her the strength she needed to crush the rising tide of memories before it could crush her. As she felt them ebb away, Curieyle grew aware of the violent tremors wracking her frame.

Opening her eyes, she gazed toward the large window on the eastern wall. It looked out over the busy streets, facing the gates of the Seventh Level. She no longer resided in the Citadel; she had left after Arwen had departed. At her request, a guard had helped her move quietly into one of the many guest houses on the topmost level of the city.

Curieyle felt safer here, hidden from the questioning gazes of the various courtiers and nobles who dwelt in the Citadel. She had only a handful of living companions in the small house she had chosen and they all kept to themselves. She was content with quiet discussion over the evening meal and some light merrymaking afterword, but the grandeur of the Citadel was absent. It relaxed her and gave her a sense of security she desperately craved.

With a sigh, the young woman slipped from her bed and straightened the blankets. There was work that needed doing; she would not abandon her duties over hurt feelings.

As Curieyle left the guest house, someone fell into step beside her. Glancing to her right, she saw it was the Steward of Gondor himself.

"My lord Faramir," she said, stopping in her tracks to curtsy.

"My lady Curieyle," Faramir replied warmly.

"Please," Curieyle said. "I am hardly a lady."

Faramir waved her protestations aside and gazed at her intently.

"How is the King, my lady?"

Curieyle frowned. "You are his steward, my lord."

"And yet the servants say he speaks more to you than any other."

"'Tis easy to speak to someone who means nothing to you, my lord," Curieyle said. "The King has been awfully kind to me, but you are wrong if you believe I am anything more than a servant to him."

She paused after passing through the Citadel gate and looked over at him.

"He is hurting. That much anyone can see. I push too hard at times, I will admit, and he speaks to me then. But he says very little of consequence. And if he spoke to me of personal emotions, it would not be my place to confess such confidences to you, my lord Faramir. Good day."

Knowing her words to be both truthful and rude, Curieyle hurried away from Faramir as swiftly as she could without running. Her emotions were raw and the last thing she wished to do was speak of the King she worried so deeply for.

When she entered the kitchens, Cook instantly whirled on her.

"Curieyle! There you are, lass! Where did you rush off to in such a hurry? You know there is work to be done! No, no. No excuses. Go help Lysana prepare the vegetables. And don't touch the cooking fires!"

Curieyle rolled her eyes as she hurried her way through the press of workers in the kitchen, sliding onto a stool before one of the long tables at the perimeter of the chaos. She had never taken to cooking and all the workers in the kitchens had strict orders to keep her away from anything that would be placed into the mouth of a human. Or animal, for that matter.

"Why is Cook in such a temper?" she asked the golden-haired girl seated beside her.

Lysana smiled and pushed a basket of potatoes closer to her.

"She is overwhelmed," Lysana replied. "The company from Dol Amroth is arriving today. There is to be a welcome feast and much merrymaking. We will all be in attendance to serve and to make certain everything runs smoothly."

"All of us?"

Lysana smirked, rotating a potato in her hand so that the knife she held peeled the skin off in a perfect spiral.

"All of us. Even you will not be able to escape this gathering. You'll have to work just as hard as the rest of us tonight."

The look of smug satisfaction she sent Curieyle, coupled with the implication that Curieyle didn't pull her own weight made the young woman want to slap her. Tamping down on the urge, she grabbed a carrot and began peeling it with vicious strokes of her knife.

Closing her eyes on her task, Curieyle took deep breaths, allowing the sweet scent of freshly picked produce to wash away the irrational anger. She knew it was born of her concern for the mental wall inside her mind, just as she knew she would need to take care of said wall tonight. She could not continue on with such anger at the forefront of her emotions.

When she felt calmer, she opened her eyes to find Lysana staring at her.

"You've completely eviscerated that carrot," the girl commented.

Looking down, Curieyle saw that she was right. The thick stalk of the carrot was now a thin ruin of ragged orange strips.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Obviously," Lysana said, plucking the carrot from her hand. "Perhaps you should join the servants preparing the bed chambers. I'm certain you can manage that without any mishaps."

_Why the little,_ Curieyle growled mentally as she shoved to her feet.

Without deigning to respond to Lysana's goading comment, she slipped through a side door and out into a narrow stone corridor. With an explosive sigh, Curieyle slumped face first against the wall and pressed her hot cheek to the cool stone.

"I wish Gandalf were here," she breathed. "He would know what to do."

...

Unbeknownst to Curieyle, as she hugged a stone wall near the kitchens, the White Wizard strode through the doors of the King's study. Aragorn looked up at the sound of said doors opening and a genuine smile graced his lips.

"My friend," he said, rising to his feet.

"Aragorn," Gandalf replied. "I am pleased to see you here. I had expected to find Faramir in your stead."

"Faramir has his own duties to attend to, as do I."

"It gladdens me to hear it."

Gandalf eased himself into the comfortable chair before the King's desk. Withdrawing his pipe, he packed it with sweetly-scented leaves from a small leather pouch. Tamping down the pipe weed, he lit it and pulled, his eyes surveying Aragorn critically. Retaking his seat, Aragorn stared back.

"You appear well," Gandalf commented.

"I am no longer isolating myself is what you are too polite to say, my friend," Aragorn replied ruefully.

Gandalf inclined his head. "I was concerned. Your heart is not easily shaken."

Aragorn leant back in his chair and sighed. "It is still mending."

Gandalf exhaled a cloud of smoke which transformed itself into the hazy likeness of a Mallorn tree.

"They still love you, Aragorn," Gandalf said sadly. "Their betrayal was never meant to harm you as it did."

"They could have told me of their love," Aragorn said, his voice trembling with suppressed anger and pain. "Did they think I would not bless their union? I could have forgiven their betrayal. It is the deceit that burns like whiskey in an open wound."

"You confided to me that Arwen and Legolas discovered their love as the darkness in the east began to grow. Is it not beyond the realm of possibility that they did not wish your heart to be troubled at such a critical time? Tell me, Aragorn, how you might have responded to the ring had your heart been filled with pain."

"You may be right, mellon," Aragorn murmured. "But I cannot yet see the wisdom in your words. Had they meant me no harm, why did Arwen take her place beside me as queen? The deception was cruel and unnecessary."

Gandalf knew he could not give Aragorn the answer he sought, for the White Istar did not know. The man raised a valid argument; what _had_ been Arwen's purpose in marrying a man she no longer loved?

"The delegation from Dol Amroth arrives today," Gandalf said.

"Prince Imrahil, his family and several of his most trusted advisors," Aragorn replied, his shoulders relaxing at the turn in conversation. "There are still bands of orcs roaming our lands. They must be eradicated. I also wish to discuss the destruction of Minas Morgul."

"You said as much at your coronation," Gandalf said. "You wish Imrahil to take part?"

"He is a man of Gondor," Aragorn replied. "I would ask Imrahil and Faramir to lead the destruction and cleansing of Minas Morgul. Perhaps in a half score of years, it will be fit for human habitation once more."

"In the meantime?"

Aragorn arched a brow. "In the meantime, I will care for my people as is my duty."

A smoke ring larger than Aragorn's head filled the air between them. When Gandalf lowered his pipe, he was smiling.

"I am glad to hear it."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I disclaim all the lines you recognize. They are not mine and I don't pretend they are.

Thank you for all the favorites and follows. I'm touched this story has intrigued so many of you. Reviews are always appreciated, though there is no pressure on any of you. I know how difficult it can be to find the right words sometimes.

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Curieyle hurried through the Great Hall of the Citadel, a platter of apple-topped pork slices in her hands. The scent rising from it was heavenly, causing her mouth to water and her stomach to growl longingly. She had been too nervous to eat before joining the servants in the Entrance Hall to greet the delegation from Dol Amroth, but her nervousness had left her and she was now ravenous.

She had heard much about Prince Imrahil and his family while assisting the upstairs maids in preparing the suite of guest chambers. From what she had gleaned, Prince Imrahil was one of the King's advisors in addition to being Prince of Belfalas and the lord of Dol Amroth. He was also exceptionally handsome and married to a fair and dutiful wife whom he adored. He had four children, three sons and a daughter, Lothíriel, upon whom he doted.

"She is sweet on King Éomer," one of the maids gushed. "There is a rumor about their impending nuptials flying around the Citadel."

"How would that be at all accurate?" Curieyle asked. "King Éomer is in Rohan. I am certain his servants speak of the same if what you say is to be believed, but it doesn't follow that Gondor's servants should suspect such a thing."

The maid raised a haughty brow.

"My sister is in King Éomer's employ. She has seen his heart and tells me of it in her letters."

"I expect she is a dear friend of the King, then," Curieyle observed as she slid a pillow into a linen sheath. "How else would she be so certain of his heart?"

"She is observant!"

"And kings will portray whatever mask they wish you to see." Curieyle straightened and turned toward the door. "Our own King Elessar is a perfect example of _that_."

As the unkind whispers of the maids followed in her wake, Curieyle had a feeling of déjà vu so powerful she had to duck into an empty room to recompose herself. Sinking onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed, she closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands.

Aching loneliness filled her as she sat, alone and unwanted. She couldn't understand why the other children always made fun of her, why they called her names like know-it-all and chipmunk. She tried to fit in, truly she did. She wanted to share everything she knew with the peers that spurned her. She reached and reached and all she ever got in return was taunting scorn.

Was it her respect for authority that made them hate her? Was it the way she stated the things she knew as incontrovertible fact? They were; her books had told her so.

Curieyle felt like she was falling down a long, dark hole. A part of her mind knew she was sitting motionlessly on something soft, and still the world rushed upward around her.

"It's no wonder no one can stand her. she's a nightmare, honestly."

She winced as the voice floated around her, coupled with the jeering chants of "Chipmunk, chipmunk, chipmunk!"

"She must have noticed she doesn't have any friends."

Flashes of color shattered the darkness. Something red, a floating feather, children with linked hands, twirling round and round her so fast it made her dizzy.

"Know-it-all! Chipmunk! Know-it-all! Chipmunk! Know-it-all! Chipmunk!"

Cruel, young laughter, even as she screamed for them to stop. Heat building inside her, spreading like liquid fire through her veins. Tingling fingertips, burning eyes.

Tears clogged her throat.

"Stop," she choked out brokenly. "Please stop…"

"Filthy little Mudblood…"

"Ugly little whore! Fit only for one purpose."

"Oh, god, no…not that!"

Her voice seemed to come from far away, high and frantic. The wall suddenly loomed before her, menacing and terrifying, shaking fiercely as if a giant hand intended to fell it with sheer force. It glowed eerily, lit as if by crimson flame. Cracks, like vicious grins in the bubbling stone, marred the once-smooth surface. Through them, she caught a glimpse of a roiling vortex of memories. Faces flashed in the ever-shifting sea, cruel and leering, manic and evil.

"Aaaaaaarrghhh! Gods no! No! No!"

"Curieyle! Curieyle! Come now, lass, you're safe. Come back!"

The voices ceased, silenced with an abruptness that left her reeling. The wall gave one last heave before vanishing in an explosion of darkness. Emptiness filled her senses for the briefest of moments, a stillness so absolute it could not have come from the world beyond her mind. In that moment of nothing, she knew only the terrified racing of her heart and the scalding tears on her cheeks.

"Curieyle."

The voice was laden with concern. It was a voice she knew, though not one she cared much one way or the other for. With a tremendous force of will, she surged upward toward the surface of her consciousness.

Blinking, Curieyle came back to herself to find Faramir crouching before her. His expression was filled with concern.

"Are you all right, lass?"

"M-My lord Faramir," she murmured, wiping hastily at her eyes. "Forgive me. I must have drifted off."

Faramir gazed at her, long and hard. His eyes were captivating, as if they saw more than she was willing to show. He looked at her as if he could read what was in her heart and the intensity of his gaze frightened her.

"Will you be well?"

Looking away, she shifted and stood.

"'Twas merely a dream, my lord. I m-must return to my duties. T-Thank you for rousing me."

Hating the quaver in her voice, Curieyle dipped a quick curtsy and hurried from the chamber at a near run.

What had happened to her? She wondered later as she helped wash windows in the Main Hall. Why had she fallen into a trance of half-remembered torment? What had triggered such a strong reaction? It could not have been the annoyed whispers which had followed her from the bed chamber the maids had been working on, could it?

It was absurd and yet, Curieyle could not bring herself to discount the possibility. She knew the memories behind that wall were lying in wait for her. Was it so impossible that one had been summoned forth by the unkind whispers at her back?

_But there was more than one,_ her mind argued.

_Yes, and they were all relatively the same. Torment and unkindness and a need to know why I was the target of both._

With a sigh, Curieyle dropped her sponge into the bucket at her feet. She was going to find no answers by silently wondering over her experience. All the answers were behind her wall and her earlier encounter with it only solidified her decision to keep as far from it as was mentally possible. What she needed to do was focus on the life she was living now rather than the one she had left behind.

Now, as she approached the High Table where the King sat with Faramir, Gandalf and his guests, Curieyle made a point not to meet the Steward's searching gaze.

There was already food on the table, but Cook had selected some choice favorites the servants could float around the hall. The apple-topped pork was one such delicacy. Curieyle would have gladly kept to the perimeter of the Great Hall had Aragorn not caught her eye and motioned to the platter in her hands.

Stepping up beside him, Curieyle curtsied.

"Pork, my King?" she asked, extending the platter.

Withdrawing his dagger, Aragorn speared a slice and transferred it to his plate. When Curieyle made to draw the platter away, he caught the edge of it with two fingers, halting the movement in its tracks. Leaning forward, he spoke quietly.

"Faramir told me of your nightmare this afternoon."

Curieyle stiffened, her guard instantly rising. She felt her lips thin, her expression hardening.

Anger shot through her. What right had Faramir to run to Aragorn with tales of her private torment? Had she sought the King's assistance, she would have approached him herself. Aragorn had enough to concern himself with; the waking nightmares of a servant should not warrant his attention.

"I appreciate your concern, my King, but I am perfectly well. Lord Faramir should not have troubled you with such trivial matters."

Aragorn's eyes swept over her face, undoubtedly searching for a hint of weakness she refused to give him.

"Nightmares are hardly trivial," Aragorn replied at last. "Should you need to speak of them—"

"I will never—"

His eyes hardened instantly, causing Curieyle to jerk in surprise. She was no longer facing the fractured Ranger of the North, but Elessar of Gondor, a King whose will was to be obeyed without question. The look he gave her demanded her respect and Curieyle could do naught but give it.

"Should you need to speak of them," Aragorn reiterated, punctuating each word with care, "my chamber is open to you."

"Why?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Aragorn's eyes softened.

"I am no stranger to the terrors of the night," he murmured. "Speaking of them may help you."

"Thank you, my King," Curieyle whispered.

She knew she would never confide in him, but nonetheless, the offer was appreciated.

Aragorn held her with his intense gaze for a few moments longer before releasing the platter and returning his attention to his meal. Backing away, Curieyle would have fled if not for the raised hand at the far end of the table. Taking a fortifying breath, she made her way toward it.

The hand belonged to a man who was undoubtedly one of Prince Imrahil's sons. Inky-black hair framed a face that would make a sculptor weep with joy. His features had a strength and definition that would have been too much on any other man, but which flattered him in a way that caused Curieyle's long-ignored feminine instincts to take instant notice.

Even as she silently offered the platter of pork, her eyes took in his firmly etched mouth, the chiseled blade of his nose and his intense grey eyes. With a jolt, she realized who he reminded her of.

"You resemble the King," she said without thinking.

The man smiled as he speared a slice of pork with his own dagger.

"We are men of the Dúnedain, my lady. Some resemblance is to be expected."

Curieyle nodded.

"There are differences," she stated. "You are far colder by nature while the King's coldness stems from his pain."

As the words left her mouth, Curieyle hoped an arrow would come out of nowhere to smite her where she stood. Why? Why by Eru's creation had she said such a thing?

One of the man's sculpted brows arched. The look he sent her made Curieyle want to disappear.

"Pray, tell me more of myself, my lady." His voice had dropped into a low growl. Curieyle was uncertain if it was a playful growl or a dangerous one.

Knowing she should not speak, the young woman opened her mouth.

"King Elessar can avoid being seen if he wishes. There is a presence about him which he can command, but it is not like yours. People will look your way even when you wish them not to."

The corners of the man's lips curled upward.

"You are amused," she stated.

"Immensely," he agreed. "You are not as proper servants are, my lady. You are far too outspoken."

"'Tis then very fortunate for me that I care little for your opinion," Curieyle retorted hotly. "Good evening, my lord."

"We _will _meet again." It was a command, not a suggestion.

Curieyle did not reply, but swept off toward the nearest beckoning hand.

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Breathing fast and hard, Harry Potter stared down at the Golden Snitch in his hand. It was the same one he had caught at his very first Quidditch match, one of the two items Albus Dumbledore had left Harry in his will. It was the Snitch whose flesh memory was not of Harry's hand, but his mouth. Winning his first match by nearly swallowing the tiny golden ball, courtesy of a jinxed broom, had provided the perfect hiding place for… something.

_I open at the close._

The writing on the Snitch made sudden, terrifying sense to him now. Now, when he yearned for time to move as slowly as possible, it was flying by with a speed that rivaled his Firebolt. Understanding seemed to be bypassing thought as it crashed over him in waves.

This was the close. The moment was now.

Lifting his hand, Harry brought the Snitch to his mouth, pressing the golden metal to his lips.

"I am about to die," he whispered.

In a distant corner of his mind, Harry knew his fear was irrational. Everyone he loved had gone before him—his parents, Sirius, Remus…Hermione. Closing his eyes, Harry tensed against the surge of agony that tore through him at the thought of his best friend, his sister, as he'd last seen her alive. She had been lying limply beneath a broken chandelier, her arm caked in blood, still and unconscious from the multitude of Cruciatus curses Bellatrix Lestrange had used on her.

_We never wanted to leave you there,_ he groaned silently. _We tried to come back for you. We tried so hard, Hermione._

Tears blinded Harry as he felt the metal shell break open in his hand. Raising Draco Malfoy's wand beneath the Invisibility Cloak he wore, Harry spoke in a voice barely recognizable as his own.

"Lumos."

The Resurrection Stone had cracked down the vertical line representing the Elder Wand, while the triangle and circle representing the cloak and stone were still discernable. Again, understanding flashed through him, quicker than thought. He knew what needed to be done, but it would not be as it was in The Tales of Beatle The Bard. He was about to join his loved ones; there would be no bringing them back. They were coming to fetch him home, not the other way around.

Lifting the ring with trembling fingers, he turned it over, once…twice…three times.

_Miss Granger, three turns should do it._

Harry winced at the remembered words and at the morbid parallel in his current action.

They were there. He could feel them around him, hear the shift of insubstantial feet on the twig-strewn ground. Blinking the tears from his eyes, he saw them—His father, his glasses slightly lopsided, Sirius, young and handsome, Remus, also young, his hair thicker and darker than Harry had known it to be, lily, her emerald-green eyes drinking him in hungrily as though she would never tire of looking at him. Harry's eyes slid over all of them once, twice, a third time. When he accepted that he wasn't accidentally overlooking a hidden figure, his shoulders slumped and his heart ached.

Turning his head, Harry's eyes feasted on his mother's face, and he wished she could reach out and hold him. He wanted to bury his face against her shoulder and weep for the one who hadn't come, the girl who must have believed he and Ron had willingly abandoned her to torment and death.

"Does it hurt?"

The childish question fell from his lips before he could stop it. Had it hurt for Hermione? Voldemort had been certain to leave her body where Harry and Ron would find it, and the condition of it would haunt Harry's nightmares forever.

But had it hurt? She had been so disfigured; could anything hurt after suffering so profound? Was Harry about to find out?

Sirius was speaking, and Harry forced his attention back to his godfather.

"Quicker and easier than falling asleep," he was saying.

"And he will want it to be quick," Remus added. "He wants it to be over."

As Harry made his way through the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by four of his dearest loved ones, only one thought accompanied him.

_I don't deserve that._

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

Harry stared at Ron from where he had collapsed on his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower. He was filled with so many conflicting emotions, he found it a wonder he hadn't exploded. There was relief so intense he could almost taste it, anguish over the deaths of Fred, Remus and Tonks, the ever-constant guilt of Hermione's murder and the heartbreak of not seeing her at the time when he had needed her most.

Why had she not come?

After recounting his experience in the forest to Ron, his best friend swallowed audibly, his throat working so hard it looked painful.

"I reckon she feels we deserved that," he said. "Since we weren't there when _she_ needed _us_ most."

"It's not like Hermione to be vindictive," Harry said. He sounded unconvinced even to his own ears.

"No," Ron replied. "It wasn't. 'Course, that was before she was tortured, violated and murdered by Death Eater scum. Anyone would hold a grudge after that."

Harry's stomach cramped painfully as the image of Hermione's broken body flashed before his eyes. Goosebumps rose on his skin and he shivered with a mixture of grief and fear.

"I wish I could see her, if only for a second," Harry said, his voice choked with tears he was too exhausted to feel ashamed of. "I hate that she died thinking we'd abandoned her."

Ron's own eyes glistened suspiciously.

"Yeah," he croaked. "Me too."

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

In a small guest house on the topmost level of a city as white as snow, a single tear slid down the cheek of a sleeping young woman.

"Harry…Ron…Why…?"

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

at the top of a Citadel, in a large chamber lit by firelight, calloused fingers gently caressed a delicate jewel. The moonlight from the open window caught the white stone at the heart of the pendant, causing it to glow with a soft inner radiance.

"Arwen…Legolas…Why?"

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

In the Courtyard of the White Tree, a tall form stood silhouetted against the night sky. Its stillness was unnatural, its eyes fixed on the sapling as though it held all the answers. Reaching out, the figure placed a hand tenderly to the bark.

"Why?" it whispered.

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

In Sydney, Australia, a brown-haired woman lifted her head from the book in her hands. _Amid Summer Night's Dream_ slipped to the floor as she clasped her head in pain.

_Hermia,_ she thought. _Hermia, and it makes me think of something…Hermia…Hermia…Hermione…_

And the bonds surrounding her memories shattered, weakened by the absence of their caster.

Emma Granger inhaled sharply, then released the breath on a long, anguished wail. Sliding from the sofa onto her knees, she wrapped her arms around her torso, rocking back and forth, seeking any form of comfort in the face of her daughter's betrayal.

"Hermione…Why?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Curieyle's life may seem like trivial filler at the moment as events are set into motion elsewhere. Bear with me. I know exactly where this story is going and she'll have her time soon enough.

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

The library of Minas Tirith was like a gift from Eru himself. Bookshelves towered more than twenty feet into the air, laden with volumes and scrolls on every subject imaginable. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle as a page was turned or the slight shifting as someone rearranged their position.

As she walked between two shelves, Curieyle inhaled the scent of parchment and ink, so comforting, so familiar. She knew she had loved books in her previous life. How could she not? Reading and learning were as natural to her as breathing.

Making her way to the section of the library devoted to languages, she scanned the shelves for the tome Arwen had lent her a fortnight after Curieyle had met her. It had been the day Curieyle had overheard her Queen and her King conversing in elvish while she plaited flowers into Arwen's beautiful hair.

"How might I learn elvish, my lady?" she had asked eagerly during a lull in the conversation. "It is such an entrancing and beautiful tongue."

"Our secrets will be safe no longer, my love," Aragorn had teased.

"Oh, hush, you," Arwen said with a laugh. "Curieyle, I can teach you. There is a book in the library we provide to human children who wish to learn Sindarin. I will retrieve it for you after the evening meal."

"Thank you, my lady." After a moment. "If my King has secrets he wishes to confide, might I humbly suggest he do so in the dead of night? I may not speak the tongue of the Firstborn, but I am certain others here are not so ignorant. Besides," she continued, her tongue running away from her common sense, "talk over pillows is much more satisfying than talk over flowers."

Arwen burst into peals of laughter while Aragorn stared at Curieyle as if he had never seen her before. He appeared torn between joining his wife or scolding Curieyle for her outspoken suggestion. Looking up from where she was arranging a beautiful white flower at the end of a plait, Curieyle smiled warmly at Aragorn. After a moment, his soft laughter mingled with his Queen's.

With a sad smile, Curieyle stopped before a bookcase of slender tomes, her eye caught by a leather-bound volume halfway up the shelf. The book was unremarkable, but she recognized the golden threads on the spine.

Pushing herself onto her toes, she reached for it. Her fingers fell miserably short. Frowning and glancing quickly around, she grabbed the shelf in front of her and began to climb.

When her foot was on the third shelf, Curieyle felt strong hands grasp her waist. Gasping, she nearly lost her grip. Half turning, she looked down.

"Hello, my lady."

It was the man she had met at the evening meal the night before. He was clad all in black, the color only enhancing his intensity. His expression was impassive as he held her in a grip much too intimate for her liking.

"You!"

"Me," he agreed. "I warned you we would meet again."

"Release me, my lord," Curieyle snapped, ignoring his comment.

"I do not wish for you to fall, my lady."

"I am perfectly capable of climbing four shelves. Take your hands off me."

He ignored her, his eyes traveling past her to the book she had been reaching for. With a small sound, as if he had just made up his mind, he swept her off the shelf, rose onto his toes and drew the volume from its place.

"How dare you!" Curieyle fumed.

He raised a brow and held out the book.

"Your book, my lady."

Curieyle glared at him before snatching the volume from his hand. She did not like being touched, especially without her permission. She was not adverse to it as Aragorn now appeared to be, but it made her uncomfortable.

"Who are you?" she snapped.

"You know very well," he replied. "I am one of the lords of Dol Amroth. Do not confuse my title with that of my father; I am not _the_ lord of Dol Amroth, but I hold power enough to be respected."

His eyes pierced her like grey lances. They were narrowed slightly, focused on her as though he would bend her will with a single look. All that intensity aimed at her caused Curieyle's hands to sweat, the book slipping a little in her grasp.

"Respect must be earned," she said, even as her equilibrium shifted. How could one man hold so much power in a single glance?

"Not when you are born royalty," he said.

A spike of incredulity shattered the spell of his eyes. Casting him a look of what she hoped was pure disgust, Curieyle turned and made her brisk way down the aisle between the bookshelves.

This man reminded her of someone she had once known. The thought did not cause her fear. It made her angry and a little sad. She could not put a face or name to the person, but she knew he too had felt himself superior due to his birth.

_This man is a prince, though. He is used to unwavering devotion._

_Be that as it may,_ her mind replied. _He is not excused from common courtesy._

_But he is._

_Not with me!_

The man fell into step beside her, causing Curieyle to release an exasperated breath.

"What do you want, my lord?" she asked wearily.

"The pleasure of your company."

"Are you mocking me?"

"I am not." He sounded annoyed. "It is a welcome change to find a servant that does not grovel."

Curieyle raised her eyebrows, surprised by his admonition.

"Well," she said with deadpan humor, "I will endeavor not to do so, my lord."

"My lady," he answered wryly, "you never could."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No." The word was emphatic and final.

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

When Curieyle arrived in the King's chamber to strip his bed, she was shaking her head at the thought of Prince Imrahil's son. He was dominant by nature, thoroughly aggravating and far too intense for his own good. He had found something intriguing in her, she was certain, and it annoyed her. She preferred anonymity. She felt safe in the background, unnoticed and invisible as a servant ought to be. This man was drawing her into the spotlight of his attentions, a spotlight she had no desire to inhabit.

At the memory of how he had lifted her off the bookshelf without her permission, Curieyle's blood sang with indignation. With a growl, she wrenched the linen case off Aragorn's pillow and flung it across the room. Glaring at the wall, she clutched the pillow close, then hurled it at the stone.

"Has my pillow caused you offense?"

Yelping in surprise, Curieyle whirled to face her King as he stepped into the chamber.

"Do not do that!" she snapped. "You gave me a fright!"

Aragorn raised a brow. Reminded of lord Tall, Dark and Infuriating, Curieyle folded her arms and mirrored his expression. Chuckling softly, Aragorn stepped to the wall and lifted the pillow from where it had landed.

"Something has upset you."

"Which of Prince Imrahil's sons was seated at the end of the high table last evening?" she asked. "The Prince himself was at your right, and his eldest son, the one with the kind yet serious face was at _his_ right. Another of his sons was seated to your left with lord Faramir. Who was the other?"

Aragorn looked surprised at the question but answered it anyway.

"That was Amrothos. He is Prince Imrahil's youngest son."

"Amrothos," she murmured.

The name suited him. It rolled off her tongue like pure honey, rich, overpowering and not at all good for her. And yet, she could not stop rolling the name around in her mind, feeling a sense of triumph at discovering it, though she knew it was hardly a court secret.

"Has he done something to upset you?" Aragorn asked.

Curieyle returned her attention to her King and contemplated telling him of Amrothos's far too familiar gesture in the library. After a moment, she rejected the idea. Her problems were her own; she would not burden Aragorn with trivialities.

"Nay," she said. "Though he is very intense."

Aragorn stared at her for a long moment before nodding.

"He has needed to be," he said.

"Why?"

"It is not my place to tell you that," Aragorn replied as he crossed the room to a chair before the hearth.

"You are the King," Curieyle said, turning back to the bed and beginning to strip the linens from the mattress.

"I will not abuse my power by giving away secrets that are not mine, Curieyle." Aragorn's tone was clipped and Curieyle did not press him further.

When she heard the sound of liquid being poured into a goblet, she whirled around. Aragorn met her eyes steadily as he set the decanter on the table before him.

Curieyle was crossing the chamber before she had made the conscious decision to move. Reaching out, she fastened her fingers around the stem of the goblet, tipping it toward her so she could peer inside.

"Water," she said, surprised.

Aragorn jerked the goblet from her grasp with a force that caused her fingers to burn.

"I do not so easily forget my promises," he snapped.

"You did not make one, my lord," Curieyle replied, folding her arms across her chest. "Due forgive me for caring enough not to see you relapse into self-destruction."

His eyes blazed at her as he sipped from the goblet.

"You overstep your bounds," he growled.

"Since when! If being bold is the price I must pay for giving a damn then I shall overstep them frequently!"

Curieyle did not know where the unfamiliar phrase came from. It was harsh and disrespectful and felt wonderful to say. Aragorn's brows lifted as he stared at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

Her King's tone told Curieyle he knew exactly what the phrase meant, perhaps had heard it before, and was not at all impressed with her for speaking it.

"Mind your tongue, Curieyle," he said softly. "Such language does not become a maiden."

Curieyle released an explosive sigh and shook her head.

"I apologize for doubting you, my King," she murmured grudgingly. "It has been a rough twenty-four hours."

"Do you wish to speak of it?"

"Nay. I cannot."

"I will not press you, Curieyle," Aragorn replied. "But I am here if you desire to reach out to someone."

Curieyle nodded, then returned to the bed.

"Will Amrothos be accompanying the party to destroy Minas Morgul?"

"How do you know of that?"

"The servants have whispered about it in the past. They say you announced your intentions at your coronation, and it only makes sense that Prince Imrahil would be involved. Not only is he a man of Gondor, he is your advisor as well as a warrior with much battle experience."

"You connect information well, Curieyle."

"It is logic, my King," Curieyle answered, tucking a clean sheet beneath the mattress. "It is hardly difficult."

"Some might beg to differ."

"Let them. Their lack of logic does not affect _me_."

"And if it did?"

"It would not," she replied, circling the bed to tuck in the opposite end. "I have logic enough for ten minds or so I have been told."

_By who?_

_That is of no consequence._

_Is it not?_

_Nay!_

Aragorn smiled faintly, then answered her question.

"I am uncertain if Prince Imrahil will ask Amrothos to join us, but I cannot see why he would not."

"He did not appear to mind his son sitting away from him at the feast last night," Curieyle pointed out.

"Amrothos takes very seriously the duty to his men. If you did not notice, they were at one of the tables nearest to where he sat. Imrahil is aware of this and would not scold his son for an awareness he finds admirable."

"His warriors are grown men. Why must he watch them?"

Aragorn lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "He is very mindful of what is his."

"He does not own them."

"But he wishes to assure himself they are comporting themselves as befits men of their standing. I can sympathize."

"He sounds rather controlling."

Aragorn sipped his water as Curieyle gathered the dirty linens.

"He is a lord, Curieyle," he said. "It is in his nature to be controlling, for if he were not, others would seek to take advantage of him."

"I hardly think that is possible," Curieyle said wryly.

Aragorn chuckled, though Curieyle noticed the laughter did not reach his eyes.

"That, tithen pen, is due to his control."

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

Morning sounds surrounded him—the call of a bird, the rustle of small creatures waking for the day. The land was so quiet, he thought perhaps if he only stopped and listened hard enough, he would hear the music within the soil Sam had brought back from his travels. He imagined he could hear it singing to the earth, imagined he could hear the flowers themselves growing, thriving on the potency of magic and life the little box promised.

He never mentioned the box. It was a closely-guarded secret by the Gaffer's son and he did not bring it up in casual conversation. Once the invaders had been driven away and the traitors dealt with, he knew Merry, Pippin and Sam were content to fall back into old patterns.

No matter how hard they tried, they could not be the Hobbits they once were. Merry and Pippin were too tall. There was now also a watchfulness about them, a depth that hadn't been there before. They had all seen things, dark and terrible things that would never truly leave them.

Stopping on the edge of Farmer Maggot's land, he crouched and ran his hand through the grass. His fingers tingled and his eyes burned. Refusing to think, he withdrew something small from his pocket and went to work.

As his hands performed the familiar actions, his mind reflected on the many happy years he had spent in the Shire—drinking with friends at the Green Dragon, stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot's stock, climbing trees and going for long walks where he could admire the beauty of the land he was blessed enough to call home.

Things were different now. Ever since the men had come, life had ceased to be so simple. He had seen darkness in his home, a darkness he had fervently hoped could never touch it. He had heard the harsh cries of battle on the innocent air, had seen Hobbits lying where they fell, their eyes empty and mouths still, never to laugh or sing again.

Something of the Shire he had always loved had died with those Hobbits, had been swept away with the destruction the battle had caused. The land healed and the Hobbits moved on, but it was not so easy for him. He could not stop himself from wondering why.

Why was violence such a common response in the world of men? To regain their home, had blood truly needed to be spilled on the precious soil? He expected so, knew it, in fact, though the knowledge didn't make the reality any easier to bear.

The Shire had to be cleansed, truly cleansed of the taint war had brought to it. His heart broke for the loss of what this land had always meant to him—safety, security, peace. That had been stolen from them all, and it was his intention to give it back.

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

Rosie Cotton laughed as she walked hand-in-hand with Samwise Gamgee, the Hobbit to whom she would be married in little over a fortnight. She was listening to the tale of how Gandalf had caught him eavesdropping on a sensitive conversation, and how that had led him to accompany Frodo on his journey.

"I thought he was going to turn me into somethin' unnatural," Sam said, smiling sheepishly. "I was as scared as anything."

"But he did not, and here you are," Rosie replied.

"Aye," Sam said, squeezing her hand gently. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."

Looking tenderly at him, Rosie stopped and turned to face him. Stepping closer, she lifted her face for a kiss. As Sam leant down, Rosie stiffened, her eyes trailing something in the distance, a thin, black coil rising higher and higher, a mar on the perfect blue sky.

"Sam!" she gasped as his lips brushed hers.

Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, holding him off as she pointed.

"Is that smoke?"

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

It was the most horrifying thing Sam had ever seen. He could not have said where the fire began, but it raged down the main road of Hobbiton, consuming everything it touched. Women shrieked, children wailed and men bellowed for water.

_Water ain't going to help,_ Sam thought. _Not this time._

This fire had the look of magic about it, not in its appearance, but in its single-minded crusade to burn anything it got its flames around. Normal fire, Sam knew, would leave something behind, even in a rage like this one. But this fire left nothing. It burned through house and tree, animal and Hobbit with a vengeance, leaving nothing behind to salvage or bury.

"STOP!" he roared as yet another Hobbit rushed past him with a bucket.

Flames leapt high as a tree was incinerated, showering flaming ash like a mockery of rain. Where the ash touched ground or home, fires instantly sprang into life, burning as though they had been doing so for hours.

"Retreat!" Sam bellowed. "You can't fight this! Get your wives and families out! NOW!"

A child's screams ripped the air to shreds as a small figure shot from a burning Hobbit hole, her little frock ablaze. Sam cried out in horror, stepping forward even as the fire flared, consuming the child in a private inferno that would haunt his dreams forever. Her screams doubled in volume, so full of agony and terror Sam couldn't stand it.

"Mama! MAMAAAAAA!"

Knowing it would do no good, but unable to stand by and do nothing, he seized the bucket from the Hobbit who had run past him and flung the contents over the child. If she survived, she'd be horribly disfigured, but that would be better than not alive at all.

The flames hissed as the water touched them. For a moment, they faded, revealing a sight Sam would not soon forget. A terrified child, skin blistered and blackened, gazing up at him with eyes that pleaded with him to make the pain stop. With a wordless cry, he reached for her.

The flames flared higher than ever, but the child didn't scream. There was nothing left to scream with.

Stumbling back, Sam bumped into Rosie. She stood behind him, hands over her mouth and tears flooding her cheeks. Turning, Sam grabbed her wrists and drew her hands from her face.

"Listen to me," he said as panic erupted around them. "We need to lead them to safety. We need to get across the Brandywine and we need to do it fast. Will you help me?"

Rosie nodded and squared her shoulders, blowing a wayward curl from her face. Sam didn't think he had ever loved her more than in that moment, when she set aside fear to help her people.

Around them, men had joined the babble of terrified voices and horrified screams. Hobbits stampeded in any direction from which fire was not approaching, but Sam knew they only had a brief amount of time before the river was cut off by the flames. The roads were no option; they would have to cut across country and they would need to be swift about it.

Turning into the pandemonium, Sam placed two fingers into his mouth and whistled, high and long. The sound sliced through the din as effectively as a sword through cloth.

"All of you! Follow Rosie here! She's going to lead you across country to the Brandywine River! You've got to get across it to Buckland! Tell lord Brandybuck what's happened! If he can't see the fire by now, he needs to know!"

_Because water don't stop these flames,_ Sam thought. _And it's only a matter of time before the entire Shire is up in 'em._

As the terrified Hobbits fell into haphazard step behind Rosie Cotton, Sam couldn't help but be proud of them. No one objected or tried to return to their homes for valuables or food; Saruman's invasion had hardened them in a way Sam had never wanted to see. But in a situation like the present one, their experience, limited as it was, would save their lives.

After watching them sprint off across the nearest field, Sam turned toward the town and ran toward Bagshot Row. He would begin there. It was now a race to find any survivors and to point them in the direction of safety before it was too late.

Valar help him, he prayed it was not.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I apologize most sincerely for my long absence. I was reintroduced to the Alter Aeon roleplaying mud and it promptly ate my soul. However, in honor of my birthday, which was on the first of October, I give you the gift of another chapter. The waits shouldn't be so long in the future.

Please forgive me if this chapter feels a little forced. I had a lot of trouble writing it.

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

Harry woke drenched in sweat, one hand raised to ward off the wall of fire roaring straight for him. There was a brief moment of disorientation, but when he found himself facing the orange walls of Ron's bedroom rather than a raging inferno, his breath gusted out of him in a sigh of profound relief.

Nightmare. It had only been a nightmare.

His mind conjured the memory of the Fiendfyre Crabbe had summoned in the Room of Requirement and he shuddered. He could only hope it had been quick. Nobody deserved to die like that, not even a Death Eater.

_Well_, Harry thought. _Maybe a Death Eater._

The Death Eaters who had tortured and killed Hermione deserved worse than flaming beasts intent on devouring all life in their path. They deserved something slow and agonizing, to have every bone broken, every organ punctured, every orifice violated. It sickened Harry that he could harbor such hate, but he couldn't help the cold fury that consumed him at the thought of what had been done to his best friend…his sister.

Rolling onto his side, Harry reached for his glasses. Slipping them on, he found Ron staring at him from the bed across the room.

"All right, Harry?" Ron rasped.

"Nightmare."

Ron nodded. "Me too."

Harry's heart ached. He missed the days where Ron would have never admitted something like that, where he would have insulted Malfoy or teased Hermione to quell any lingering fear. If she were still here, Ron might soften for her the way he had when he'd returned to them after the locket fiasco. He'd remain the same to Harry though, and Harry wouldn't have complained.

But Hermione wasn't here and Ron was reaching out to the only person who could come close to understanding his pain. Harry found himself doing much the same, the awkwardness of letting Ron see his anguish drowned in the need to know that he was not alone in feeling it.

"Hermione?" Ron asked after a long pause.

Harry shook his head. "Fire."

"Fiendfyre?"

"I guess so," Harry said, shrugging.

But he wasn't entirely sure he'd been dreaming of the diadem catastrophe. The flames bearing down on him had not been fiery beasts fueled by hate. They hadn't been altogether benign—if any flame could be called such—but they hadn't appeared dark either. They had simply…burned. Everything.

Returning his attention to his best friend, Harry asked the question he knew Ron was expecting.

"Hermione?"

"Always," Ron said, plucking at the frayed cuff of his pajama shirt. "I keep hearing her screaming. Begging. Then I feel her being yanked from my arms just before Dobby popped us out of there."

Harry closed his eyes in remembered horror. The silver blur, the second wand they hadn't known about, the summoning charm that had wrenched Hermione from Ron's grasp just as Dobby began transporting them. The little elf hadn't been able to stop and when they'd landed, the blade in Dobby's heart ensured he would never be able to return for their cherished girl.

"I dream of that too," Harry admitted. "A lot."

"Never thought You-Know-Who would put the place under Fidelius with himself as the Secret Keeper," Ron said, his tone a mixture of agony and disgust. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"Because we weren't the brains of our trio," Harry said and he could hear the same mixture of emotion in his voice. "We didn't think he'd ever move that quickly because he'd always taken time to gloat in the past."

"Bet he gloated all right," Ron said savagely. His eyes glistened, but his fists were clenched and his teeth were bared. "Right after he put up that bloody charm and made it so we could never find her again—made her think she'd been abandoned to die. I hate him, Harry. I hate him!"

"I know, Ron," Harry said. "So do I. But I wasn't lying when I said I'd seen what he would become if he died. He's suffering now, just as he made Hermione suffer."

"It's not good enough," Ron said. "He should have been begging for death before you killed him. Or at least a lot more afraid."

"I wasn't going to become him, Ron," Harry said softly. "Causing suffering just for revenge. That's not what she would have wanted."

Ron rubbed his eyes angrily. "Yeah," he said thickly. "I know."

There was a knock on the door and Ginny poked her head in. Her red-rimmed eyes took in Ron's tear-streaked face and Harry's haunted expression in a single glance.

"Breakfast's ready, you two," she said quietly.

"'M'not hungry," Ron muttered.

"Please, Ron." Ginny's voice trembled and Ron looked at her in alarm. "Mum really wants us all down there, all right? Even if you don't eat anything, please let's do this for her. She needs us right now."

"Yeah," Ron said, kicking back his covers and standing. "Yeah, you're right."

Ginny turned her attention to Harry.

"You too, Harry. Please?"

"Sure," Harry said, following Ron's lead and rising from his bed. "I think you're right too."

"'Course I am," Ginny said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Harry tried to return the expression but knew he fell miserably short. It was impossible to smile when so much had been forever lost. Fred…Remus…Tonks…Colin…Hermione…always their Hermione…

Mrs. Weasley was standing at the stove when they entered the kitchen. She was stirring the contents of a pot with her wand though her mind seemed a million miles away. Mr. Weasley sat at the head of the table with George on his left. Mr. Weasley had a hand on his remaining twin's shoulder as George picked at a heaping plate of kippers and toast.

Percy was hidden behind the _Daily Prophet_ and Harry looked away when he spotted his own resigned face peering from the front page.

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, walking over to her and embracing her tightly.

"Oh, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley whispered, setting her wand to stirring the contents of the pot and enveloping him in one of her famous hugs.

As he held her, her shoulders trembled beneath his arms. He felt a momentary flash of panic before self-irritation replaced it. He might not ever be all that comfortable around crying females, but he hadn't forgotten the way Mrs. Weasley had hugged him after Cedric's death, with all the love of a mother. He tightened his arms about her now, hugging her with all the love of a son. He could never replace the one Voldemort had stolen from her, but he would show her that she still had six boys if she wanted them.

His heart broke for her as she wept silently in his arms. He felt an answering misery rising inside him, seeking another comrade, company for the agony that just went on and on and on. He tightened his grip on the woman who was like a mother to him and forced his own grief back. Not now. This wasn't for him. He hadn't been the only one to lose those he loved.

Harry heard the rustle of paper, then the sound of a chair scraping lightly across the floor. In another moment, he sensed someone nearby.

"Come on, mum," Percy said in a gentle voice Harry had never heard before. "I'll make you a cup of tea. We can sit in the garden and talk. Ginny, can you take care of breakfast?"

"Of course," Ginny said as Mrs. Weasley released Harry with a squeeze. He stepped back and watched Percy place an arm around his mother's shoulders. He shot Harry a look of profound gratitude before leading Mrs. Weasley toward the back door.

As harry watched them go, a frightening observation hit him. Mrs. Weasley had always seemed as large as life to Harry. She was so full of purpose and control, motherly love and focused energy. All of that was gone now. Of course the motherly love remained, but all her energy and determination had been drained out of her with Fred's death.

Briefly, Harry wondered what he looked like to those who knew and loved him, if Hermione's murder had killed a noticeable part of him. Did he look broken as well as feel it or was his suffering as invisible to others as it had always been?

As the back door closed behind Percy and Mrs. Weasley, Molly released a terrible wail he knew he would never forget. It was the long ululation of a dying animal, half howl, half scream, raw and unearthly in its unrestrained anguish. George leapt from the table, knocking his chair over with a loud clatter and raced from the room. Before he vanished through the door, Harry was certain he had seen tears on his face.

Ginny stood by the stove, her back to the room. She didn't bother to stifle the sounds of her soft, heartbreaking sobs as she stirred the contents of the pot before her. At the table, Mr. Weasley had his head in his hands, periodically wiping away the tears that slid silently from beneath his glasses. Ron sat at the table as though frozen, staring at Harry with a lost expression that only made the entire scene all the more painful.

Harry glanced between Ginny and Ron, uncertain whom he should attempt to comfort. He sent Ron a lost look of his own as he took a step toward Ginny, but the choice was taken from him as the Floo flared green.

When Bill Weasley stepped from the fireplace, he took in the scene with a single glance. Without a word, he went to his sister and pulled her into his arms. Turning from the stove, Ginny clung to him as though she were a lone vessel and he her only anchor in a sea that was suddenly too rough.

Harry went to Ron and sat beside him, offering his best friend what silent comfort he could. Ron sent him a nod before placing an awkward hand on his father's shoulder.

They sat like that for what felt like hours before the odor of burning porridge filled the kitchen. Bill withdrew his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at the pot and muttered a soft, "Evanesco."

The contents vanished and the air cleared.

"Right," the eldest Weasley child said. "I'm taking us all to the Leaky Cauldron for breakfast. I think getting out for the day will do mum some good. Hell, it'll do us _all_ some good."

Mr. Weasley wiped his eyes with a folded napkin and graced his eldest with a watery smile.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Bill. Ron, Ginny, Harry, you lot go get dressed. I'll go talk to George. Bill, why don't you give your mum a few minutes with Percy before joining them."

Harry couldn't help but be impressed at the way Mr. Weasley handled the situation. He had wept and then taken charge of the family that needed him. It was the first time Harry had seen a man honor the need to grieve without becoming lost in the heartache. He wondered if he would be able to manage that someday. At the moment, his own grief was a tsunami of anguish he didn't even attempt to fight or flee from.

He nodded at Mr. Weasley before turning and following Ron out of the kitchen and back up the winding staircase toward the relative emotional safety of the attic bedroom.

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Barliman Butterbur was nothing if not an extremely busy man. His inn, the Prancing Pony was the sole accommodation for weary travelers in the village of Bree. As its proprietor, he was constantly beset with questions, concerns, quarrels and conversation. His Hobbit assistant Nob did what he could to pick up the slack, for there was often plenty.

There wasn't much that could stop Barliman in his tracks. The sight of over one hundred traumatized Hobbits crowding through his door and clogging the street before the inn provided a sufficient enough shock to do just that.

"Bless my soul," Barliman gasped as he gaped at the mass of Little Folk gazing up at him.

After looking twice, he noticed that they were all covered in a thin layer of ash and smelled of smoke. Weeping women clutched terrified children, some of whom were wailing loudly while others stared straight ahead with wide, petrified eyes. Hobbit men looked grim and upset and Barliman knew something dreadful must have happened.

"Mr. Butterbur, sir," a strong voice spoke up from the front of the crowd.

A single Hobbit stepped forward, and Barliman knew he had seen this particular Halfling before. He furrowed his brow as he gazed down at the small face, stern yet kind, and an elusive memory tickled the back of his mind.

"You may not remember me, sir. My name is Samwise Gamgee and I accompanied Frodo Baggins to this here inn over a year ago. I'm afraid we may have caused you a fair bit of trouble before we left with the ranger Strider, who is now King Elessar of Gondor."

The elusive memory suddenly leapt into Barliman's grasp and his eyes widened in what he suspected was a comical expression of surprise.

"Why, Master Gamgee, I _do_ remember you! A fair spot of mischief your young Mr. Baggins caused and I can't say I wasn't right pleased to see your backs when you left. I didn't think you'd survived, taking off into the wild as you did with that Strider, and then your pony coming back all skin and bones some months later. I was sure you'd been killed, and I'll tell you that I fretted at the thought that I had sent you to your deaths by letting you run off with a ranger. But look here, Strider is king, you say? Well, bless my soul, I would never have supposed! But say, Mr. Gamgee, what has befallen you and your Shire kin that you're all here now, blocking the traffic and spreading ash all over my floor?"

Sam felt a nostalgic twinge as he was reacquainted with Butterbur's long-winded ways of coming around to a question or a point. He was also a bit irritated by it; he needed help, and although the plump innkeeper of Bree would not have been his first choice, he had nowhere else to turn. Once he'd seen his people settled as comfortably as was possible under the circumstances, he, Merry and Pippin would make their way to Gondor to plead for the King's aid.

It took less than ten minutes to tell the story and Sam fought the urge to laugh as Butterbur's eyes grew wider and wider. When he fell silent, the innkeeper's mouth moved for a few moments before he remembered how to speak.

"I'm sure I don't know what to say, Master Gamgee," he said. "I will of course do what I can to help, but my inn will never hold all of you."

"Nay," Sam agreed. "I hoped you might spread word of our distress in your common room and among the other Hobbits of Bree. Perhaps some kind Hobbit families would step forward to assist us until aid from Gondor can arrive. I and my comrades, Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck will make for the White City once we are assured of our peoples' safety."

"But of course," Butterbur said. "You're welcome to squeeze as many of you in here as possible. I'm afraid I don't have many rooms available, but I'm sure you could all use a hot meal and a strong tankard of ale."

Sam smiled for the first time since Rosie had spotted the fire. Had it only been that afternoon?

"Thank you, Mr. Butterbur, sir," he said with a sincerity he hoped could be seen as well as heard. "Thank you."

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It took rather less convincing than Sam had expected for the Hobbits of Bree to fling wide the doors of their Hobbit holes to their traumatized Shire kin. Entire families were welcomed (and in the cases of the wealthier Hobbits) two or three families were welcomed into their homes with little fuss and only a few too many inquiries. The Shire Hobbits were gracious and filled with gratitude, though Sam could tell they were naturally suspicious of the Breeland Hobbits. How could anyone desire to live outside the Shire, after all.

Their suspicion did not override their courtesy however, nor did it obliterate their common sense. They knew as well as the Breelanders did that they would not long survive without food and a place to call home if only for a time. There were many Hobbit children who needed comforting, long, uninterrupted sleep and a full belly in order to begin the process of mending from the horrors they had seen. Those sorts of things could not be accomplished on the road or in an unforgiving wild.

Not all Hobbits took up with families, however. Younger men and women offered to perform work around the inn in exchange for board and meals, an offer Butterbur was all too happy to accept since it meant he wouldn't be worked as hard, nor would he have to part with any of the gold he earned. It made the Hobbits that remained at the Prancing Pony more comfortable than settling in with strangers would have and for his part, Sam felt it an amiable situation all around.

When the long business of seeing to their people was concluded, the sun was well into the sky. Sam, Merry and Pippin retired to a room Butterbur had set aside and fell upon the meal of bread and cheese Nob had laid out for them. They were heart sore, exhausted and sick with worry over what would become of them now.

"For a moment there," Sam reflected, "I felt like I was back in Mordor. Only it was ten times worse. There was fire, mark my words, but there wasn't anything beautiful in Mordor, if you follow me. Nothin' wonderful and worth fightin' for."

"It makes _me_ think of Gondor," Pippin said, picking at a bit of cheese before popping it into his mouth. "When the forces of Mordor launched burning heads over the wall. I can't think of a worse way to find out your loved one has died."

He looked haunted and grim before taking a long draft from the pint before him. "Did it remind you of anything, Merry?"

"When I stabbed the Witch King," Merry said promptly. "I walked in a world of darkness. Fire danced on the fringes of my dreams, though I can't say with certainty if I'm remembering it right. I try not to think about it much."

"It always comes back at night," Sam said softly. "I remember that from before Mr. Frodo left with the Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel. "Sam," he'd say to me, "my mind knows we've won, but my heart still suffers. I don't think any of us will ever be the same." I was so pleased to be back with my Rosie that I didn't truly know what he meant until later. You can't guard against dreams."

"Or waking nightmares," Merry said. "I knew the Shire would burn, but only if Sauron and Saruman won." His eyes glistened with tears. "I never thought it could still be taken from us."

Pippin hung his head, thick tears splashing into the plate before him. Merry reached out silently and placed an arm around the younger Hobbit.

"What do we do now, Sam?" Merry asked. "Gandalf is gone and the Fellowship is scattered. Can we make it to Gondor on our own?"

Sam did not blink back the tears standing in his own eyes, but he let his shoulders straighten with determination.

"Yes," he said. "I've got a map I always keep with me in case we ever needed Strider's help. We'll make it to Gondor, Mr. Merry because we don't have a choice. It's _our_ turn to care for _our_ people now."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **From the bottom of my heart, thank you all for your favorites, follows and reviews.

If this chapter feels a bit out of balance with everything that has come before, if emotional events appear to be moving a bit faster than they should, I assure you that is both intentional and unintentional. I am aiming for a bit of an off kilter feeling since that is what Curieyle is experiencing at the moment, like life is moving a little too fast and she can't quite catch up emotionally now that people are becoming concerned for her and her memories are threatening to bury her. I'm also having trouble pacing myself, so any suggestions you may have are extremely welcome.

There is a slightly dark section in this chapter. If torture bothers you, you may wish to skip this one. The torture is not gruesome, merely painful for Curieyle to relive.

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"Good day."

"Quel re."

"Good morning."

"Quel amrun."

"Quel andune."

"Good evening."

"Quel undome."

"A star shines on the hour of our meeting."

"Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo."

Aragorn abandoned his pacing and stopped before Curieyle, looking down at her with irritation.

"Your accent is abysmal," he said flatly.

"Well!" Curieyle sputtered. "Aren't you simply charming?"

"I am truthful."

"I did not ask you to teach me," Curieyle pointed out. "You took that task upon yourself."

"It is well that I did," Aragorn said. "If you had traveled to Rivendell or Erin Lasgalen and spoken such, you would not have been understood. Your accent is lovely and adds character to Westron, but it mangles Sindarin appallingly. Is there no way for you to copy my diction? It has been weeks, Curieyle."

"I am trying," Curieyle said, her own irritation softened by his offhand compliment. "It is not easy to wrap ones tongue around a language one is not born to. You must remember, my King, you have been speaking Sindarin since childhood. It is as natural to you as breathing. It is not so for me and it will take time for my accent to shape itself differently around these strange words. You must have patience with me."

Aragorn sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Forgive me, Curieyle," the King said. "Of late, I seem to be lacking many of the emotions I once possessed. It appears patience has fled along with many others."

"You are one man, my King," Curieyle replied, tilting her head back to look him directly in the eye. "You are not a god. You have faults just as the rest of us do. Do not burden yourself with guilt for those faults when they are the very things that make your people love you. A king who can admit those faults will never become infatuated with his own importance."

Aragorn gave Curieyle one of the looks she was coming to expect from him whenever something wise sprang from her lips, as though she were too young to say such things. Curieyle could not say where her wisdom came from, and yet there could be only one place. Her past life must have taught her much for even without remembering the hardships, she was able to hold on to the lessons.

Without responding, Aragorn stepped around the desk at which she sat, coming to stand behind her left shoulder.

"Your penmanship is phenomenal," he said. "You have taken to the written form of Sindarin like a natural."

Smiling, Curieyle looked down fondly at her neat, tiny handwriting.

"I have always taken quickly to theory and book work," she said and a sadness stole over her for a moment, though she could not say why. "It is not everything."

"Nay," Aragorn said softly. "It is not."

"It used to be all I knew," she said, her voice distant and strange even to her own ears. "I clung to it like a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood. I wrapped myself in facts and figures and wielded them like armor to protect myself from hurt."

"Did it work?" Aragorn's voice was gentle, as though he were wary of pushing her to talk.

Curieyle shook her head. "If anything, it made things worse. People don't like it when you rub their noses in your intelligence. It angered them. I'm sure some were jealous… in fact, that was the argument I used for years when I battled with myself. They're just jealous. But it was more than that. I believed myself to be better than them, and they saw that. But books and cleverness will only take you so far."

She touched the parchment, tracing her handwriting with the tip of her index finger.

"Mine was a lonely childhood," she whispered. "And it was a loneliness of my own making. And yet… when I am frightened or confused, I fall back on books and written work." She bowed her head, her hand coming to rest in the center of the parchment. "Answers are so much easier to find there."

Curieyle felt her King's stillness like a physical thing. Was he even breathing? And then he moved, crouching down beside her in a single fluid motion.

"Curieyle," he whispered, touching her shoulder in a caress so gentle it caused her eyes to fill.

Curieyle turned her head, bearing her vulnerability to his gaze. At the sight of her expression, Aragorn's own concern deepened visibly.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," she replied, her voice barely audible. "Something changed. The two boys… my boys…" Her chest heaved. "My two boys who hate me…"

"Why do you say that?"

Curieyle closed her eyes and a tear trickled slowly down her cheek. She wasn't all that surprised when she felt the gentle touch of a calloused finger against her skin. A slight movement and all that remained was a trail of salt, a dry testament to the agony that would not end.

"I cannot say," she whispered. "Something frightening happened… and they were my friends. And then something terrible happened… and they… they… I can't recall, Aragorn. But I feel the betrayal in the deepest part of my soul where memory can never truly be blocked."

"Your memories, have they been blocked, Curieyle?"

"Do you speak of your brothers? Friends from before the war?"

Curieyle opened her eyes and sighed. "Yes… and no," she said, suddenly very weary. "Trying to remember it all makes my head ache, Aragorn. Please let us speak of something else."

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Aragorn knew he would receive no further answers from Curieyle. He could see the subtle distancing in her eyes, her reassertion of the role of a servant whose only purpose was to serve her king. He knew better now. Though her words had left him with more questions than answers, he had seen a vulnerability within her that broke his heart. It was a torment that went beyond loss, a misery so deep it had scarred her very soul.

Tamping down on his urge to coax her into confiding more to him (it was unhealthy for anyone to live alone with so much suffering), Aragorn turned his attention back to the parchment lying before Curieyle. Pushing her would do naught save frighten her away.

"I think perhaps a journey is in order," he murmured. "A small one to Rivendell so you can immerse yourself in the culture of the elves. Perhaps the correct pronunciations will come more easily to you if you hear the language in a more natural setting."

Curieyle cocked her head and furrowed her brows at him.

"My King, I have duties to attend to here."

"The head of my household would hardly challenge my authority if I desire the company of one of my servants on a diplomatic journey to Imladris," he said.

Curieyle shook her head, her lips twitching into a smile.

"I suppose when you put it that way, you are not mistaken. Mithren would _not_ challenge you. But there is still the fact that I know what is truly happening and it does not sit well with me to gallivant off with a ranger into the wild merely for the sake of knowledge."

Amusement filled the King of Gondor as he permitted himself a rare smile. There was something about this young maiden that was like balm to his wounded heart. Her pain reached out to his, drawing them closer and yet not close enough that their sufferings would collide in bitter resentment of the other's inability to heal all the hurts life had bestowed upon them.

"Would you not enjoy a change of scenery and pace, Curieyle?" Aragorn asked seriously. "Or would you wield your work like armor once more?"

Curieyle gasped and Aragorn watched her expression cycle through shock, hurt and anger before it settled on resignation.

"Well played, my King," she said icily. "Throwing my words back at me… I've a mind never to tell you anything in future."

"Peace, tithen pen," he soothed. "I meant no harm or offense."

Curieyle sighed explosively and reached up to run her fingers through her mane of brown locks. Aragorn found its bushy nature endearing, though thrice now he had noticed Curieyle scowling at her hair as she cleaned the looking glass in his study. It saddened him when he thought that his headstrong young servant seemed unhappy with every aspect of herself, especially when there was so much to be fond of beneath the brittle shell she erected.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked.

Aragorn raised a brow. "Always, Curieyle," he said. "Unless it involves the wellbeing of my kingdom, I will never command you to do something that makes you unhappy. That is not why I became king. You may accept my offer or you may reject it. The choice is _yours._"

"But I boss _you_ around all the time," Curieyle blurted.

Aragorn laughed. "You are usually right to do so when you do," he conceded. "It does not stand that I will do the same merely to balance the scales."

A faint smile ghosted across Curieyle's lips, but there was wariness in her eyes. "May I take time to consider the offer?"

"Aye," Aragorn said. "You may."

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Alone in the wild with a man? Curieyle knelt on the hard floor of the Great Hall, scrubbing fiercely at the stone with a rough brush lathered in soapy water. Never mind that the man was Aragorn. Never mind that Curieyle knew he would never harm her. If there was one thing she was certain of in this new life, it was that she had nothing to fear from the King of Gondor save his desire to know her past.

And yet… the thought of leaving the comfort of the city, of having no excuses she could use as swift escape routes when talk became too serious frightened her. She would be trapped in a world she knew nothing of, forced to rely on Aragorn for comfort, sanctuary and protection.

She worried he would press her to speak of her past. She had found it far too easy to do so and she feared her willingness to open up around him. Aragorn held the power to crumble her wall simply by being himself. He was strong, he was gentle, and she gravitated toward him like a moth to a flame.

She had remembered. For the briefest of moments, she had willingly reached toward her past and touched the memories the Valar had locked away. She had wanted to confide in her King, had wanted him to make it right somehow. The thought mortified her now; she was not a little girl and he was not her father. She had no right wanting him to banish the nightmares that lurked just beyond her conscious grasp. He was no white knight and she was hardly his princess.

If she traveled to Rivendell with him, Curieyle knew the temptation to open to her King would be nigh impossible to resist. And yet, had he been correct? Was she once more wielding her work like a weapon simply because it was safer?

_It's different,_ she told herself. _What is hidden now are not the insecurities of a lonely child, but the horrors of an entire life. To unarm myself now is to have no defense against my past should it decide to attack me._

It was a compelling argument, and yet Curieyle only half believed it.

"Hell," she breathed, sitting back on her heels and brushing hair from her face. "I am beginning to wonder if it would not be simpler for him to command my company. There would be no choice in the matter. Yes," she continued, "and that would have miffed you to no end, would it not?"

"There are times when we cannot trust ourselves to make the choices that are best for us," a deep, rich voice said from behind her.

Curieyle started and looked up as Lord Amrothos stepped into her line of sight, careful not to mar the floor she was cleaning. He was clad in black tunic and leggings which fit him well, and his hair hung loose and tousled about his shoulders. He looked as though he had just been for a ride across the Pelennor Fields and Curieyle was helpless to quell her instant response. Her palms grew damp, her heart beat a little faster and her abdomen clenched with a need she stoutly refused to acknowledge.

"My Lord Amrothos," she said, pleased at the steadiness of her voice. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Amrothos's brows furrowed in displeasure as he looked at her.

"How do you know my name?" he demanded.

"Er… I asked the King." Curieyle was confused at the irritation in his tone.

"You should have asked _me_," he said sharply.

"Well," Curieyle said, "I may have… eventually."

"Were you frightened, little one?"

Curieyle raised a brow. Was he honestly miffed that she had not sought his name from _him_? And the nerve of him to assume the reason she had not was because she feared him!

"Perhaps you should have been more forthcoming with your name and introduced yourself as is proper, my lord," she said acidly, her own ire rising and all attraction vanishing. "I may not then have gone seeking your identity elsewhere. As you seem to feel it your right to be familiar with me, it is only _my_ right to know the name of the man I must avoid. And if you think for one moment that I fear you, then your mind is addled and you ought to have it seen to!"

Pushing herself to her feet, Curieyle glared at the man before her with all the venom she could muster.

"If you will excuse me, my lord," she placed mocking emphasis on the last two words, "I have work to accomplish, not that you would know the meaning of the word."

Curieyle had never before met a man who could anger her so swiftly. Not even her boy… one of them… the one who made her think of chocolate and peppermint… the one she enjoyed bantering with… even he fell short of this man.

"Nay, I will _not excuse you!_" Amrothos growled, stepping forward and seizing her arm in a powerful grip.

"Unhand me!" Curieyle cried, dismayed to hear the note of panic in her tone where she had intended there to be outrage.

This grip was nothing like the one he had used in the library. Then, his fingers had not dug into her tender flesh hard enough to hurt. His features had not then been harsh with anger and he had not towered over her with the express need to dominate.

"How dare you—"

"L-Let go!" Her voice was a high, thin plea.

Amrothos released her so abruptly, Curieyle stumbled and fell. He stepped toward her but she shoved herself across the floor, her mind scattered into a million fragments that screamed of only one thing. Escape.

Any moment now the hands would be back. They would hold her down and the pain would come again. The laughter would follow… then the violation… then the pain again… or perhaps the pain _was_ the violation, an endless circle she could no longer keep track of or understand.

"My lady!"

Pain exploded in her temples, as if rusty spears were being driven slowly through her skull. Her teeth tingled with a strange vibration and a coppery tang filled her mouth. Her eyes watered and it was difficult to draw in breath. A high-pitched whine filled her ears as though someone had set a wireless near a wand… but what was a wireless? All she knew was that the sound pierced her like a lance, pinning her in place and scraping away at something vital in her mind.

Suddenly, the wall loomed before her, shaking and bulging as it had never before done. Curieyle watched in horror as a chunk of crimson stone fell away, dissolving into red sand. The jagged hole left in its wake appeared to mock her before an irresistible force propelled her straight into the gaping maw.

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The darkness was absolute. Silence pressed down on her from all directions, smothering her in its utter completion.

How long had she been here? Days? Weeks? She had tried measuring time by the meals they brought her, but that was a highly imprecise method. They didn't feed her every day, she knew. It had already been too long. She was certain more than a day had passed since the footsteps had approached, since the cat flap had rattled and a dish of food had been slid through.

A cat flap. Voldemort had torn that information from her mind; he wanted to know everything she could tell him about Harry. Hermione had refused to provide him anything of substance, and yet she knew she needed to buy herself time. They would return for her, Harry and Ron, she simply had to wait a little longer.

Hating herself but knowing she needed to give him _something, _Hermione had surrendered the few facts she knew of Harry's childhood. Her black-haired boy had opened up to her, she remembered. In the tent, when all the lights were out and it was dark—though never this dark—and she had wept for Ron's absence, Harry had spoken to her of hope. He had whispered of hungry nights locked in a cupboard and lonely years of never being enough. He had urged her to smile, for not all was lost.

"There's still hope, Hermione," he had said.

"You don't believe that," she'd choked out through her tears.

"You're wrong," he'd replied after a long pause. "I have to believe that or I'll go mad.

Hermione clung to those words now as she waited in the darkness, desperate for company and fearing it when it came. These days, the door opened for only one purpose.

"There is _still_ hope," she whispered.

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The darkness was absolute. Silence pressed down on her from all directions, smothering her in its utter completion.

How much time had passed? The flap had rattled an hour ago. Or had it been a day ago? Hermione didn't know.

She was freezing. She'd not bothered to approach the dish on the floor. The odor rising from it made her gag. She didn't want to know what the Death Eaters had seen fit to send her this time. They had often left vile surprises on or in her food. This time, they seemed to have sent her the surprise without even bothering with the temptation of a meal.

Rolling onto her side, Hermione curled into the fetal position in a desperate attempt at self-comfort. Her stomach cramped with hunger and her eyes burned with tears.

_Don't cry, Hermione,_ she scolded herself silently. _You can't afford to lose any hydration._

But it was so difficult not to wail her terror into the blackness.

"Oh, my boys," she whispered into the silence. "Where are you?"

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Footsteps shattered the silence, causing Hermione to start awake. Her breath caught in her chest as she counted them on the stairs.

One… two… three… four… five…

They went on forever. How many steps were there? Sixteen? Maybe twenty? Perhaps a hundred.

Was it mealtime again? She prayed it was.

She knew it wasn't. The rank scent of her last "meal" still filled the room. That meant only one thing.

She bit back a whimper as the cell door opened. The thin beam of light from a wand tip caused her to squint and look away. After so long in the dark, even the weak illumination was blinding. Her eyes landed on the dish lying near the door and she was glad she had not eaten it when she saw the brown mass piled on the dirty china.

She watched as the Death Eater nearly put his foot in the plated mess. With a curse, it vanished, much to her relief. They would not, then, force her to consume it.

Her relief was short-lived as the tall figure crossed the cell to tower over her. A gloved hand reached for her, seizing her by the hair and yanking upward.

Hermione gasped, scrambling to get her feet beneath her. Even as she stood, the Death Eater kicked them out from under her. She fell, held in a half crouch by the tight grasp on her hair.

"Stand up, Mudblood," the Death Eater sneered.

She tried, only to be kicked to the floor once more.

"I said stand! Crucio!"

She was on fire. She was burning at the steak. She was being flayed alive by white-hot knives coated in acid. She was slowly being compressed in a giant mortar and pestle, pulse after pulse, wave after wave, torrent after torrent of agony pounding down on her, one atop the other until she could barely remember her own name.

When it ended, she found herself laying at the Death Eater's feet. She could do nothing but gasp air into her burning lungs. Her throat was on fire; she could only assume it was due to her unrestrained screams.

Reaching down, the man seized her arm in a grip of iron. His fingers dug into the tender flesh, causing her to whimper hoarsely. His touch was full of anger, disgust and a thirst for her suffering. Hauling her to her feet, he dragged her from the cell and toward the stairs where Hermione knew the agony would only get worse.

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

Amrothos had been shaken by the fear in the young servant girl's voice when he had seized her arm, prepared to berate her for judging him so harshly. There was nothing he took more seriously than his duty to his men. The meaning of work, indeed. Had she ever led men to battle? Nay. She had not. And yet she dared mock him.

His anger had fled, however, in the wake of her sudden terror. He had released her without thinking and watched as she collapsed to the floor. Instinctively stepping forward to assist her, he had frozen when she'd shoved herself across the stone in an obvious attempt to distance herself from him.

"My lady!" he cried, shocked by her behavior. Was this the same fiery-tempered little hellion who continually went toe-to-toe with him? Was this cowering girl the same wench who spoke her mind with little concern for the respect his station commanded? And what was it that had terrified her so completely?

Even as he watched, the girl went limp, as though all her muscles had failed her at once. She collapsed to her back like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He stepped forward, and when she did not respond, he hurried to her side.

Her expression was slack and empty. Her eyes were wide and staring at something only she could see. She was awake, but Amrothos knew she was not conscious of him or of anything around her. She was trapped within herself; he had seen the same expression on warriors who had seen too much carnage and suffering.

Cursing himself for a fool, Amrothos swept the girl into his arms and raced for the Houses of Healing. He would see that the girl was brought back from within her mind, and then he would berate her thoroughly for shaking him so completely.

As he ran through the entrance hall, a clear voice rang out behind him.

"My lord!"

Amrothos turned to face the slight, golden-haired lass who had spoken.

"What has happened, my lord?"

"What is your name, girl?"

"Lysana. What is wrong with Curieyle!"

Curieyle. A fair name for a fair maiden.

"Go and fetch the King, Lysana," Amrothos commanded. "Tell him one of his servants is not well and that I am taking her to the Houses of Healing."

Without waiting for a response, Amrothos continued toward the doors of the Citadel.

_Curieyle._ He sighed inwardly. _I believe you may be more trouble than you are worth._

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

"What happened?" Aragorn asked intently as he burst into the Houses of Healing. His eyes were instantly drawn to the slight form of his favorite servant lying on the bed nearest him.

Aragorn was already reaching for a pouch of Athelas as he listened to Amrothos relay the tale of how Curieyle came to be in such a state.

Taking two leaves, he laid them on his hands and breathed on them. He then crushed them, and a living freshness filled the room, as if the air itself awoke and tingled with joy. Drawing three more leaves from the pouch of Athelas, he cast them into a basin of steaming water and the fragrance that came to him, as of dewy mornings in the fair land of Lorien eased the burden of worry on his heart.

"Hold this before her," he told Amrothos, whose countenance had relaxed slightly.

After handing the Lord of Dol Amroth the basin, Aragorn knelt beside Curieyle and placed a hand on her brow. Closing his eyes, he reached toward her mind with his, sliding into a world that was not quite that of spirit and not quite that of Arda. It was an in between place, a realm where the consciousness of others could be slipped through as easily as if it were an open door.

The pain that greeted him when he touched Curieyle's mind nearly sent him reeling. Never in all his wanderings and wars had he felt such soul-renting torment.

Aragorn did his best to distance himself from the white sheets of agony flashing through his mind. Curieyle was here, trapped within this maelstrom of anguish. He had to draw her out lest she lose her mind to the pain. Aragorn knew no one could withstand this sort of suffering for long.

"Curieyle," he called, pitching his voice low and imbuing it with the command of a King. "Curieyle, come to me. Hear me, Curieyle, and obey. It is time to come back now."

The response came more swiftly than he expected.

"Aragorn?"

"I am here. Come to me, Curieyle. You are safe now."

"It hurts," she whimpered, and the helpless suffering in her voice broke Aragorn's heart.

"It is not real," he soothed. "Come toward my voice, Curieyle and I will bring you back."

"There is no going back. This is my mind."

"This is the deepest layer of your subconscious, tithen pen. The horrors hidden here have not yet reached your conscious mind. You are hiding, Curieyle. It is time to leave the darkness and return to the light."

"I cannot." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Aragorn spoke again, filling his voice with as much command as he could muster. He would _not_ see Curieyle surrender to her demons. He would not see her trapped forever in a hell he could save her from.

"Lasto beth nîn. Tolo dan na ngalad!"

The elven words of healing sliced through the agony, clearing a silent path down which Curieyle could travel. Sensing a dimly glowing warmth streaking toward him, Aragorn seized upon it, drawing it close, wrapping his own consciousness around it.

"You are safe now, tithen pen," he soothed. "Rest now, and do not be afraid. The shadow will _not_ hold sway here."

"Do not go."

"I am right beside you. Wake, and see me."

(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(.(

With a sharp intake of breath, Curieyle's eyes opened. The first thing she was aware of was the freshness filling the room; it made her think of springtime on the land of fairy though she could not honestly say why.

Turning her head, she met her King's gaze. Aragorn's eyes scanned her face, seeking answers she could not give him. Offering him a sad smile, she shook her head.

"Please do not ask," she whispered. "I do not remember much. There was fear and there was pain, but why I felt it and its relation to my past have faded. Perhaps someday I will unearth the answers you seek, but for now, I would rather keep my past hidden."

She closed her eyes, shivering.

"I remember very little," she said. "But what I do fills me with fear. I would not soon unearth more."

Opening her eyes, Curieyle reached toward Aragorn, hesitating when his eyes followed her hand, a wary warning sparking in them. When she touched his shoulder, he tensed visibly. Curieyle ignored his reaction and squeezed.

"Hannon le, Aragorn," she murmured, foregoing his title for the moment.

Withdrawing her hand, Curieyle was pleased to see a small smile on his lips.

"Your accent is abysmal," he said.

"You, my King, are impossible."

Before Aragorn could respond, the door to the Houses of Healing opened and Faramir stepped in.

"My King," he said, and Curieyle heard a strange note in his voice.

Glancing toward the Steward of Gondor, she raised a brow at the man's three companions. Two were significantly taller than the third, though still quite small by human standards. All three had thick, curling hair on their heads as well as on their feet, she noted.

_Hobbits,_ her mind supplied helpfully.

Glancing to her right, Curieyle was amused to find Aragorn looking quite shocked indeed. Even as she watched, he began to smile, a true smile that reached his eyes and made them shine.

"Sam! Merry! Pippin!"

Standing, Aragorn crossed to the three small figures and crouched before them.

"What brings you to Gondor?" he asked.

One of the taller Hobbits looked Aragorn directly in the eye. His own brimmed with tears.

"Something terrible has happened, Strider," he said before either of his companions could speak. "The Shire has been destroyed."


End file.
